


Last Favor

by Startabi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Boba Fett - Freeform, Cum Eating, Deepthroating, F/M, Face-Fucking, Facials, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Heavy Petting, I mean BINDERS but, I'll be adding more tags good LORD, JFC, Loss of Virginity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Original Character Death(s), Smut, Thigh-Riding, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Violence, questionable morals, reader - Freeform, sw can't name anything normally so, you - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi
Summary: Running.That's all you've been doing nowadays. Fortunately you've found yourself in Takodana Castle, one of the only safe havens in the galaxy.The unfortunate part, however, is that you're being hunted. Hunted by the best bounty hunter in the parsec;Boba Fett.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Reader, Boba Fett/You
Comments: 35
Kudos: 237





	1. Last Favor

**Author's Note:**

> .I've succumbed to the boba brain rot so come get yalls juice. 
> 
> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com

**Your** heart lurches as your shoe skims the edge of the stair, overshooting it with the confidence of someone who most certainly does not own a jetpack or wings. With a startled yelp, you face the stomach twisting act of launching down the rest of the stairs. _Face first._

 _Too much noise_ , you think as the roughened duracrete stair tears into your knee. Far too much noise as a stuttered wheeze finds its way out once your body settles in a battered heap at the bottom. Your ears ring as your teeth clamp down onto your bottom lip, forcing yourself to move _dammit_. There isn’t time to cry or coddle your wounds if you want to escape him—Hell, _if_ you survive this.

You wince and pull yourself up, forcing down a wail as an agonizing array of nerves metastasize in your ankle. It’s a hindrance for sure, every step fiery and sharp, but the adrenaline masks it well. You don’t know the winding catacombs well, there was no reason to, but you just hope— _stars_ —you hope you know them better than him.

You do, however, have to give yourself a pat on the back. This has been your longest streak yet, a whole two months before some unsavory character was sent your way. Though, the first two were nothing but complete jokes compared to Boba Fett. 

The first one, a young boy looking to take down his first mark had been easy to sway. Bartering away little less than half your savings; he’d been _kind_ enough to hand over your own bounty puck and be on his merry way. The boy never harmed a hair on your head yet the encounter spurred you into fleeing from Arkanis to Dantooine the same day.

A bounty hunter from the Haxion Brood came next. Hela Enn--a frighteningly tall woman who preferred vibroblades and custom made blaster pistols over words. You still have the scar from where the plasma bolt scorched your shoulder—the memory and pain still _very_ fresh. Looking back on it now, there’s no other explanation other than pure luck that you escaped with your life much less your freedom. To this day you’re still unsure what happened.

There’d been a political skirmish between Rebels and the Empire that day, you think, and whether Hela Enn was shot in the crossfire or arrested—you’re not sure. All you know is that you’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the bounty hunter since.

You know the price on your head won’t be retracted. More of them will come nipping at your heels like starving Fyrnoks no matter how many times you hop from one planet to another. Exhaustion and paranoia bear down on your body like two parasites immune to any bacta. Every passing shadow and any eyes that linger a fraction too long shreds through your nerves with iron claws. Sleep is just a whimsical fantasy by now. You don’t— _can’t_ let your guard down. You’d buy a blaster too, but you settle for a cheap vibroblade as your credits swiftly dwindle to a mere _handful_.

Most of it is spent on transport fees—two thirds of the remaining cash enough to maroon yourself on Takodana. There’s too many faces here, too many opportunities to be recognized and turned in for quick credits. Your far fetched hope of escaping plummets into the expanses of deep space as you wrestle with the fact that this will be the last place you’ll see before your freedom is plucked from your grasp.

There’s always the off chance someone is heading into Wild Space (well, you know there are), yet you hold no torch for that idea. You’re broke with no skill useful enough to allow for free transport or a temporary job. So, with a bitterness on your tongue you settle in for the long haul.

It’s easy to pass for a servant here, much easier than previously thought to blend and disappear within the constant flow of people inside the ancient fortress. You keep your head down, living off scraps from the thousands of dishes you clear each day and night. In the past it would have made you nauseous; eating off others’ plates, pocketing stray nuts or slices of fruit you could scarf down in the back corners of the castle like some street urchin.

You look the part.

Each tip, carelessly tossed your way has you rushing to collect before Aayn Tala or Nasha Myr could swipe it out from under you. It pays to have quick hands. _Literally_.

“That’s the fourth time _today_ you’ve stolen my hard earned tip!” Aayn, the peach-pink skinned Twi’lek hisses into your ear as you shuffle towards another table. She blinks rapidly as her delicately shaped brows furrow into the best glare she can muster. Desperation wipes away your remorse. Maybe you’d send her an apology letter.

An, _Oh hey, sorry about stealing all your tips because I’m homeless, broke, and I don’t technically work here. Did I mention I have a fucking bounty on my head?_

Aayn spits out a curse as your fingers roll across another credit left on an empty stool. _Whatever_.

“At least I _clean_ the tables,” you mutter, scurrying to the kitchens, praying to the Maker the Twi’lek would leave you be. “All you do is flirt.”

“Yeah!” She cries, shrill voice knocking up an octave or two as her temper flares. “Hard. _Earned_.”

Sighing, you scoop up the awaiting orders, careful not to singe your wrists over the open flames, and stalk back out to the main crowd. It takes every bit of self restraint not to gobble down the meals as the smells flood your nostrils. “Go bother Nasha about it or something.”

Aayn scoffs, rolls her eyes that are the same hue as honey, and leaves to pout and preen her ruffled feathers. She'll be back to her normal jovial self in a couple hours, thankful she hasn’t the emotional capacity to hold a grudge. Or really, remember it for that matter. 

If making money meant pissing off a Twi’lek in the process--then so be it...

Which brings you to this most _unfortunate_ present day.

Now, you don’t think a peeved off Aayn or any of the other staff you’ve managed to swindle directly relates to your misfortune. Maybe a small part of it does—that and your overdue discovery of your little hideaway. A backlog of luck, every bit you’ve used swinging back at catastrophic speeds in search for repayment.

It’s later that evening when he arrives.

Takodana Castle is known for its robust crowds and its even more radical owner and not once has there been a silent moment. Not even in the wee hours of morning. Even then you could find a soul softly singing about lovers and broken hearts over one too many cups of Alderanni wine or the never ending game of Sabaac in the far back corner. A symphony of noise and transient folk all heading everywhere and nowhere; most more than willing to share their colorful stories with a wink and laugh while others clutch their life story tighter than a Mandalorian does their armor.

A hush, so swift and abrupt, even you find yourself holding your breath not to disturb it, echoes through the castle’s hall. The slow, metallic _chink...chink...chink…_ of spurs bounces off the stone walls, petrifying and intriguing in the same amount of time to draw a breath. 

There’s hundreds of people here, more than half of them sporting their own bounties--there’s no reason to think that the best hunter in the parsec is here for _you_. It’s comparable to sending an Imperial AT-AT to fight a nest of scrap rats. There’s no _reason_ for the icy claws of guilt and dread that has your stomach twisted up tight. A feeling akin to that of blaming a younger sibling for a shattered vase you, infact, broke and despite the lie, you are caught.

The very same moment in which you cast a glance over your shoulder is the same incriminating second you seal your fate away. 

Your heart stutters, a cold chill boring a hole straight through your soul that settles over your bones like permafrost. You aren’t conscious of the way your breathing kicks up as the slow sweep of his helmet settles like the weight of a Star Destroyer on _you_.

Some brave piece of you, the imaginary parts of your soul with war-smoke for breath and who slays dragons with one fell sweep of a vibroblade shouts at you to fight--stride forward and accept your fate with a sly grin and bark out something witty that’ll earn a couple laughs.

But you are no hero and this is no storybook. 

A plate clatters to the ground and the spell of silence is broken.

The next chance you get, you melt into the background, the age old rule of neutrality placed in the castle sparing you a bit of time. He can’t touch you here. Not inside the castle at least. If fear hadn’t seeped into every inch of your being, you’d have remembered that and stayed put until he grew bored. Instead you flee into the catacombs. It’s a mess of deserted tombs, and deadends, but surely there’s another exit...

There _has_ to be.

Either way you should have known. Known that it’s completely useless. If not for the blood smeared across the floor from your scraped up palms—easy to track—he’s got to have some fancy mod in that chipped helmet—a heat sensor or _something_. 

There’s a storeroom at the end of the corridor, spiderwebs and dust clinging to the corners like forgotten memories. The rotted door, mite-eaten and hanging off its hinges is easy to shove open, scitter inside and throw yourself behind dusty boxes. 

You don’t think about the hundreds of splinters piercing through callous and flesh as you drag the boxes as close as you can. The dust tickles your nose, throwing another blanket akin to suffocation around your lungs. Your knees are crushed into your ribcage and— _Maker_ —you can’t fucking _breathe_. 

There’s no time to decide to jump ship and escape into another room or push your luck and burrow further into the catacombs. Each metalic chink against stone carries the weight of a nail imbedding itself into your coffin. You stiffen, mouth drier than fucking sandpaper as the darkened cloud of impending doom rattles through your mind like thunder.

The bounty hunter’s boots pad against the stone, quieter than you would think for a man hauling that much gear on his person. The sudden drawl of his voice, rougher than a shot of fire whiskey down the wrong pipe, originates to your left. 

“Here, clever rabbit,” he mocks, the jangle of spurs terribly close to the abandoned pile of chests and crates. “Come out of your hidey-hole.”

Your hands clamp over your mouth and nose as a black boot slips into your line of vision through the gap. His tattered cape stills as he listens for your breathing—any movement you’re stupid enough to give away.

Seconds tick away slower than a millennia as your heart pistons against your ribcage. 

Your lungs burn and your head is swimming with little black dots at the lack of oxygen as he takes one last careless sweep of the room and leaves. You don’t risk taking a gulp of air; not until his footsteps fade.

Even then you stay put. For all you know he could be lurking in the corridor—probably _is_ —

Fifteen minutes is the amount of time you count in your head. It’s all you have the patience for. All you can handle before it feels like each time you blink another nerve is shot and replaced with subzero temperatures. You wince as the crate scrapes against the floor as you shove it forward. 

The room is empty and so is the corridor. The only sound comes from your heaving exhales and the occasional drafts that whistles through the cracks in the foundation.

Gone.

For now.

You take this chance to flee, backtracking your steps, pausing behind each corner for precautionary measures in search of the little back door that leads outside. Aayn had shown you once; a little run down patio where the cooks and servants would smoke Spice on borrowed time.

It’s the main reason why your brain ditches all sense of vigilance and skips ahead to the relief of safety. You’ve cast yourself into the net of false security, all too happy to throw open the door and launch yourself into the greenery of Takodana.

You should’ve remembered.

Recalled that tiny, little, minuscule fact that the only safe place on this blasted planet happened to be the place you were currently in. Boba Fett couldn’t lay a _finger_ on you there, lest he wanted to sacrifice his allowance to _be_ there.

All of these flicker through your head in a flash of regret and then—

_“Gotcha’.”_

Rough hands seize your arms, the oncoming moments a blur as you’re wrestled to the ground. Your temple connects with the soft earth, as an armored kneecap stabs into the middle of your back, snatching any and all resistance left in you. Both of your arms are wrenched up and behind your back as stasis binders snap around your wrists with the fluidity of water.

Your wits rush back to you with the force of a hurricane, throwing your weight into wiggling and squirming out of his hold. Icy pinpricks of panic slice through your bones as the bounty hunter rolls off your back and tucks his hands around your ribcage. With ease he hauls you up from the ground and throws you over his shoulder.

The durasteel pauldron slams into your stomach, the blow threatening to upheave what little food you’d eaten today. Though, from the momentum and just a bit of luck, you’re able to throw your knee up. It slams against the bottom of his visor, knocking his head back and breaking his solid grip around your middle.

Your body falls off his shoulder like a sack of weights. The brunt of your fall caught by your shoulder, no doubt tearing a muscle or tendon but your mind is focused on _standing_. Just as you get one foot beneath your swaying figure, the bounty hunter barrels into you from behind.

Your screech of surprise is muffled as a gloved hand, smelling of dirt and blaster residue, clamps over your mouth. “Nice try, girl. But it’ll take a lot more than that.”

The sharp prick of a needle pierces through your trousers, the tranquilizer only needing a couple of seconds to react and spread throughout your bloodstream. Your limbs crumple like a deactivated droid as a sluggish calm, weighted and thicker than the daze of alcohol washes away your mobility.

Your vision is the last to go as the drug rips through your nervous system; abandoning you with the blurry blend of greens and red painted over the sharp outline of black. 

<><><><><>

It’s cold when you wake. Your shivering body is the only way you know you’re still alive.

Though you could be mistaken.

It feels like wading through kriffing cotton as you try to sort out your thoughts. Your arms and legs have turned into heavy rocks, numb to your requests for them to move. It takes every last dreg of strength to open your eyes.

_Hell_.

This is what Hell looks like, your mind concludes.

The stark, impersonal walls are lit with blood red emergency lights, the gentle hiss of the air filtration system giving away that this is, not in fact, hell but a ship.

_Boba Fett’s_ ship.

You shift, wincing as your shoulders pull against the binders locked into the wall. No. _Nonono—_

You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t right.

A choked sob echoes through the empty space as you struggle, praying to the Maker that he hadn’t locked the binders correctly. You throw your head back in defeated frustration. _Fuck_.

The sudden flash of lights and heavy footsteps clattering down a ladder is like a plasma bolt through the heart. A terse moment later the figure of your hunter steps out, the intimidating visor a vivid reminder of just how trouble you’ve thrown yourself into.

You tense as he pads forward, bypassing your cowering self in search for the control board at the foot of a carbon freezer.

Oh. _Oh no._

You’ve heard stories about those _things_. The frosty prison in which the victim is entirely conscious until release.

There were rumors too—that the occasional patron, after receiving their bounty, would string them up like ornaments. You don’t know what’s worse—hanging up as a sick piece of warped artwork or suffering for eternity in the recesses of your own mind. 

Your teeth gnaw on your bottom lip, tearing into the skin. “Are you going to put me in...that?”

He pauses, glances over his shoulder at the carbon-freezer in all its menacing glory, then settles his gaze back on you. You swallow, abruptly deciding that being at the center of this man’s attention is a very bad place to be. Maybe, if you weren’t cuffed to the wall—or you know... _abducted_ , then you’d feel a bit less like you were about to be shredded into ribbons.

You stiffen and curl into yourself as he takes a weighted step closer, and closer, and closer until all you’re able to see are the scuffed up, mustard yellow knee pads, without straining your neck to look higher. The creak of leather is louder than the crack of a whip as he squats, elbows propped against his knees just... _studying_.

Studying how you squirm and shift under his scrutiny. He’s not even fucking doing anything and yet you’re eyes can’t seem to settle in one place and your heart is pounding with such ferocity you think even _he_ can hear it. Exactly like a trapped, little _bunny_. Stuck between the razor sharp teeth of fear and dread that leaves a bitter taste upon the tongue. 

A pitiful whimper whistles through your clenched teeth as one of Fett’s gloved fingers twists around a lock of your hair.

Those icy jaws of panic, sharp and stomach churning clamp around your throat, congealing each limb into place as he cocks his head to the side. “You afraid, little rabbit?”

It’s like pushing against a ten pound weight with your tongue in order to force out a wobbly no. 

His chuckle crackles against the vocoder like wildfire as he drops his hand. “I don’t like liars.”

“Then kill me.”

It slips out before you even pause to consider the weight of your words— _Stars_ —it even stuns Fett. There’s a near imperceptible recoil that he rushes to mask with a dismissive snort. You should feel relieved he’s sparing your life but somehow it feels worse. Like some hollow branch of the remaining, desperate dregs of your hope, snapping and crumbling into ash. Humiliating that not even he would do you the mercy of ending your miserable existence.

“If I did that, _rabbit_ ,” he hums, chucking you under the chin, “I’d only get half of what I’m owed.”

You jerk your head, only now thinking to lash out with a clumsy kick. The bounty hunter avoids your flailing boot with ease. “ _Bastard_. Y-you’re a fucking _coward_.”

“I wasn’t the one running.”

He tilts his head to the side, mocking—daring you to disagree and stands up. You want to— _Maker_ —the words are there. They burn upon the tongue, charring any rational thought to be complacent and just leave it alone. Yet, he won’t stop _looking_ ; like you’re some sort of newly discovered beetle and he’s not sure whether to kill it with fire or pin it and place it into his collection.

It dehabilitates your attempt to keep calm. “ _What_.”

“Who are you?”

Your brows furrow. What the hell kind of question is _that_? Did he hit his fucking head or something? It’s not like you're some sort of high ranking Rebel official or some massacring maniac, so _really_ —there’s no bases for this line of weirdly accusatory questioning. 

Whatever he’s expecting you to say is decidedly taking too long. Your befuddlement is booted out with a sharp stab of racing nerves and staccatoed breathing as he stomps into your little corner of misery.

“I asked you a question, _girl_ ,” he growls, tipping down at the waist far enough to ensnare your jaw between his fingers. It’s rough; his digits dig into the tender pressure points lining the delicate muscles, the sharp enamel of your teeth biting into the insides of your cheeks as he forces you to _look_ at him.

He holds your jaw with the same sort of firmness one would use training a dog to obey, the darkened visor an even colder reminder that it’s in your best interest to do so.

“Well?”

Blinking back the urge to cry, you have a sneaking suspicion this is the last time he’ll bother asking. “N-no one. I’m no one.”

“A quarter million credits is a lot for a girl who claims to be nobody.”

_Quarter million?_ That’s not—that’s _insane_ —

Three thousand is _generous_ at best for what you’ve done. Surprising still that the Empire would even consider you worth hunting down and eliminating. This is a joke--it has to be. This is how he amuses himself—toying with you like a bird with a broken wing instead of severing your spinal cord and ending this.

Boba’s hand tightens its hold. “A pretty face like yours...I can only imagine what you’ve done. You kill someone’s wife?”

“N-no,” you whimper. “All I did was s-sell intel.”

“What sort?”

Your eyebrows furrow as you struggle for words. Why does he care?

“I-I don’t know? Everything—anything I could find. Blueprints, battle strategies…”

His fingers unclamp from your jaw, leaving behind a dull ache to settle into the muscles. Boba considers you, scraping through each word in search for a lie, a tell, something self-incriminating. Sadly, you are almost one hundred percent certain you’re the most pathetic bounty he’s ever handled. A kriffing _joke_ — 

“Hm.”

For the second time that night—day—you don’t know, time is warped here--he leaves. The tattered cloak whispers across the grated flooring, the metallic chink of spurs rattiling against his boots as he dissapears around a corner.

Some of that high strung adrenaline seeps out of your body, replaced with a deep chill mixed with the pain of stationary limbs pulled back too far. You can’t feel them. _Maker_ —you can’t feel your _hands_. The fear of losing your them lends you enough courage to call out.

You wonder if the price for your head would lower if he delivered you as damaged goods. You’re not interested in finding out. 

“My-my arms,” you croak, shifting your weight around until it lifts a miniscule ounce of pressure off your numb shoulders. “I can’t feel them.”

It’s comparable to speaking into the void.

You sniffle, whining and wiggling your arms until your ears pick up that familiar jingle.

Boba pauses across the tiny space. “I think you’re fine as you are, rabbit.”

Hot beads of salty water crawl down your cheeks. “ _Please_. I-it hurts. Wh-what if my arms go black?”

You know for a fact your tears do nothing to sway his mind. You were right before. Damaged goods fetch a lower price.

Boba stomps forward, irritation pouring forth like waves against a shore. He kneels, shoving an arm around you to demagnetize them. With another huffy grumble he sits back and taps at his vambraces, the flat beep and hiss of them popping open more gratifying than all the credits in the world 

A rush of relieved tears spring forth as your arms fall out of the binders, prickly warmth surging up the limbs as your circulation returns. You swing them into your lap, your shaky fingers moving to rub at the angry red lines circling your wrists. The small victory is short lived.

The bounty hunter’s hand, nearly as large as your face shoots out and pins your chest to the wall. The durasteel clangs at the force of it, punching the air straight out of your lungs. You hiss out a pained squeak.

“Don’t try anything funny, girl.”

It’s akin to the feeling of being caught in the maw of a beast—pinned beneath the wickedly sharp talons of a Nexu, moments from it tearing into your flesh. 

Your eyes flutter shut as he leans in. 

“You’re such a _tiny_ thing,” Boba comments, capturing your chin with his other hand. “Easy to crush.”

A blush, hotter than Tatooine’s surface rushes from the base of your neck at the involuntary squeak that slips from your lips. Despite that twisting, fluttering creature locked inside your chest that shouts that you should be afraid, something corrupt and deadly sparks to life in your belly.

You pray to the Maker that he doesn’t see the subtle shift of your thighs or the wheezy inhales as if you had just run a kriffing marathon. 

He cocks his head to the side, allowing the gravity of his words to hang and cement into the air. “Easy to find too.”

A helpless gasp falls off your tongue as the soft scrape of leather curls around your collar. This shouldn’t be attractive to you. He’s trying to _scare_ you not indulge your forbidden fantasies better left unfound. 

“How’d you do it? Does the little rabbit have sharp teeth?”

Your brows furrow, your own hand shooting up to feebly wrap around his wrist. “I don-don’t know what—”

“She was a good hunter. Not that I liked her,” he continues as if you had any idea what he was prattling on about. “You did me a favor really. Not much competition now.”

Something clicks. _Oh_. The woman—the one who _shot_ you. Does he think you killed her?

“W-wait!” You cheep, digging your nails into the soft, white leather of his glove. “I didn’t kill her! I lost her on Dantooine, a-after _she_ shot me.” 

A pause.

“I-I’ve never even h _e_ ld a blaster before.”

“Then why is it you want me to kill you so badly?” He asks. “Why is it someone like you has the highest bounty in the parsec and yet _claims_ to be no one.”

“I don’t know. I just—“ You sniff and look away. “I _know_ what the Empire does to traitors. I just—it doesn’t _matter_.”

You swat at a tear that rolls down your face.

“Listen—I either die _here_ or there. You’d make it quicker.” You say with the confidence of a man betting his life on a losing hand of Sabaac. 

Boba trails his hand along your cheek, down the side of your throat, and settles over the collar of your shirt. “What makes you think that, rabbit?”

_Nothing_ , your brain helpfully supplies. Your heart pounds against your ribcage as his fingers curl like smoke around the fragile column of your throat. In fact, now that you think about it—this idea was a completely idotic one. Asking a man who hunts _people_ for a living for a quick death? And the money— _oh the money—_

“You’re a strange one,” he continues, his thumb drawing a teasing circle over your trachea. He watches his digits bob as you swallow down a nervous whine. “Usually people beg for something different.”

Your teeth clamp down over your tongue as his more than suggestive words shoot straight to your core, shoveling fuel to the fire that is better off not existing. It should disgust you—he’s disgusting. “That’s _foul_.”

The dry raspy chuckle that filters out of his helmet sends an electric shiver down each and every vertebrae, dropping like a hot coal that burns through your belly. “You’re naive. And it seems like—”

In the very next intake of a sporadic inhale, his other hand catches around your elbow and yanks you into his chest. The back of your head cracks against his shoulder pauldron, stunning any thought to _fight_. It’s useless anyhow; he’s far stronger and has already got one arm locked tight around your middle, pinning both of your arms tight and firm to your diaphragm. 

“—you’re asking an awful lot of me, rabbit.” Boba hums. You can feel the low, gravelly drawl of his words vibrate through the vocoder against your cheek. “What do _I_ get?” 

_Oh fuck—oh damn it—_

Smoke is easier to pin down compared to your lack of ability in finding words. Something clever that saves your ass from this ghastly thing you’ve inserted yourself into. Instead, with a defeated squeak at the slight increase of pressure around your throat, you tell him;

“A-a favor.”

“And what favor would that be?” Boba slots his hips against the curve of your wiggling body, as, what you're sure to be, is the biggest self-satisfied grin furls out behind the chipped mask. 

“You _know_ w-what kind.”

“Why don’t you explain it to me, rabbit?” He suggests, lecherous and cruel.

This is dangerous. Very, _very_ dangerous.

You lick your cracked lips, as the man loosens his hold allowing your arm to slip out. The metal of his helmet is chilly against the heat of your blush, the only anchor to reality as you fight with yourself to do something. With a stuttered inhale you touch the inside of his thigh.

“My-my mouth,” you begin to say. “I can—you can—put your...your—”

“Put my _what_ in your mouth?” He goads, pressing the unforgiving codpiece against your tailbone. “My cock? _Say it._ ”

You shut your eyes and whine in frustration. “Yeah. P-put your cock in m-my mouth.”

He chuckles, spinning you around to face him. Your own face, reflected in the visor is twisted in aprehension. “Go ahead then. _Impress_ me.”

All holds on your body are lifted and you’re left to wrestle with the fact that yes—you really _did_ decide to do this.

At least, you think, as you lower yourself to your knees; you’ll be dead soon. _Hopefully_.

Neither of you mention how your hand shakes with tentative apprehension. Though just as you’re halfway to latching onto his person he stops you.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he huffs, catching your wrist that struggles to reach the clasps of his codpiece.

At least he has enough manners to offer you an out for this nightmarish and sure to be regretful situation. But no— _no_. You can do this. “I _know_.”

His fingers tighten around the delicate bones in your wrist, then fall away completely with an amused huff. Your fingertips hook into the little toggles, letting the piece fall away. It clangs against the ground as you toss it to the side, more concerned with getting his pants _off_ than where to stow his gear. With each centimeter of fabric you pull down, horridly slow, tan skin is there to replace it. Your hesitance is solely based on a billion nerves snapping and severing, frying any real thought save for anxiety; either way, it irks him.

The bounty hunter bats away your hand and tugs down his trousers the rest of the way, underlayers and all. It certainly leaves nothing to the imagination as you're faced with a quite pressing matter.

It’s—it’s...a lot. Certainly _thicker_ than anything you’ve seen in your limited experience.

Your tongue sweeps over your bottom lip, sparing a glance up at the man above you. The dim lights catch off the metal that the chipped paint reveals. 

He holds the thick swell of his cock with a relaxed grip, sticky precum dribbling over the slopes of his knuckles. With a needy mewl you pitch forward, greedy and desperate, and yet—

Boba’s fist tangles into your hair on the back of your neck, pulling your head into a sharp arc. You gasp, wincing at the prickly pull of individual hairs against your scalp.

“Behave,” he warns.

With what little mobility you have, you manage a stiff nod, puffing out a sharp release of air as the hand in your hair relaxes. The warm weight of his palm doesn’t leave, just smooths down the tangled patch of hair and urges you forward.

Boba’s fingers twitch as your lips find the sharp swell of his narrow hip. With soft grunt of encouragement your hand slips up to grip the hardened muscle—like fucking _beskar_ —of his thigh as you pepper feather-light pecks inward. 

Reaching the base of him, you curl your tongue along the underside of his cock, following the gentle curve up. Your movements border teasing as you lave and run the shaft between your pursed lips, wetting the velvety skin to ease the movements of your hand that reaches up to carefully stroke his cock. The tip of your tongue dips along the tiny ridges of the frenulum then smooths over along the head, lapping the bead of salty moisture that collects there. 

There’s another tug on your hair. “Get on with it, girl. I have no time for games.”

Biting back your cutting retort, you huff and part your mouth, letting the tip of him slide past your lips. Boba groans as the soft warmth of the palette of your mouth cradles the flushed tip of cock, the turgid flesh twitching as you hollow out your cheeks. You bob your head, cautious in your movements with no intention of taking him in further. He’s big and you don’t fancy a ruptured airway.

He however, has a different vision behind that tinted visor. 

“All of it,” the bounty hunter orders. “Good rabbit.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and whimper, the steady burn in your jaw growing as you take him deeper, the tip of his head brushing dangerously against the back of your throat. He lets out a curse, rolls his head back onto his shoulders and readjusts his hold on your hair.

That and the abrupt twitch of Boba’s hips has you gagging, choking on the intrusion. Tears prick at corners of your eyes as you dig your nails into his thigh, reminding yourself to breath.

“You can take it,” he cooes. “Can’t you?”

Your whine rattles through your vocal chords at the effort to work your jaw _wider_ , the overworked tendons pulling at the added stress. At this point you're surprised that nothing’s popped out of place.

He grunts in approval at your complacency and pushes deeper into your throat. Your nose brushes against his groin as he combs his fingers through your hair, forcing you to stay impaled on his cock. You squirm, the soft muscles constricting around his length as you panic at the foreign intrusion.

“ _Fuck_ —breathe through your nose.”

Sweet, cool air, rushes into your lungs at the reminder. You’d feel bad about the crescent shapes your nails leave on his thigh if it were anyone else, but he deserves the pain. A reminder that you do have claws, as minute as they are.

Your tongue brushes against his cock, a reminder to continue—anything to get this moving along. Boba inhales, testing this new sensation with a few tentative thrusts, granting you time to adjust and relax for him. 

“Shit. Didn’t think—think it’d fit.”

His words stroke some strange sense of pride within you. You can do this. It’s not so bad--even as he pulls nearly all the way out and buries back in. It’s a horrible sound; you’re embarrassed that something like that could even come out of you but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, if anything it spurs him on--watching as you clench and gag around his member. He’s not overly rough either—doesn’t piston in and out in order to just rip his pleasure from you.

It’s methodical; each roll of his hips is easier to swallow down than the last, even as saliva drips down his cock and over your hand and onto the floor. You don’t have to do much either, no elaborate act or complicated touches. 

Both your hands sweep up, exploring the taught, flexing muscles of his thighs then around to his ass. Boba swears, his pace crumbling as you grab two handfuls of the firm flesh and drag him closer.

“Rabbit,” the rough scrape of his vocals has your eyes rolling up to meet the darkened visor. “ _Maker_. Nearly there.”

You blink and purposefully swallow around him, wincing at the violent response. The previous gentleness of his thrusts are long gone, replaced with short, sporadic thrusting. His gaze not once leaves yours, the slow drift suddenly becomes the anchor; the gaping jaws of headspining gravity a greedy thing, a burning thing. It’s too bright, too shiny and unpredictable to be caught staring too long. His head rolls onto his shoulders and you’re slung back into orbit. 

He pulls halfway out with a drawn out grunt, one hand circling the base of his twitching cock. Warm streams of his release spurt against the roof of your mouth as he swears and pulls out completely. The rest of it, thick and plentiful, coats your lips—your chin. Some of it even manages to land on your throat as he swipes the tip against your bottom lip.

“ _Fuck_ —good little rabbit,” Boba praises. “You’ve made such a mess.”

His thumb swipes through a glob of his cum dribbling from the corner of your mouth and pushes it back in. Your tongue readily curls around the leather, allowing him to feed you the sticky seed painting your face.

Boba snorts in amusement, rubbing it in further against your swollen lips. “Careful...might convince me you like this.”

The filter, so bright and dazzling, fizzles out quicker than a shot hyperdrive. You jerk, launching yourself _away_ as his helmet thuds against the wall with a dark laugh. “You’re vile.”

Boba lifts his head, “I’m not the one with cum on my face, rabbit.”

Molten heat burns through your cheeks as you rush to wipe away the evidence of your crime, the guilty fingers of shame piercing through your skin. And it’s not about fellating your captor. It’s... _well_...you can _feel_ the wetness of your arousal stick to your underwear. Yet despite the hollow ache you’re ashamed to ask him for anything more.

With a sigh the man sits, resting his back against the wall. His chest still heaves, recovering precious air as he turns to look at you.

“Why don’t you ride my thigh, little rabbit,” he purrs, patting the bare muscle with a coy tilt of the head. “I think you’ve earned it.”

Your temper flares; molten and brighter than a dying sun, lips curling over your teeth in a snarl. “ _Bastard_.”

His shoulders raise with an impartial shrug, tapping his thigh once more as if he dialed the sound down inside his helmet. You’re torn.

What you should do is walk away--shove his stupid, self-serving snobbery back in his face. Playing into his little game is exactly what he wants, what he knows you’ll do. Yet, at least, as you glare into that uncaring, obsidian visor, you can tell yourself you tried. Tried not to shrivel into yourself at the soft chuckle that comes with shucking off your pants and tentatively mounting his thigh.

He doesn’t mention it—probably doesn’t care that you’ve left your underwear on. He drags a curious finger along the waistband.

“Take these off.”

You suck in a breath. _Ok, then. Maybe not--_

Leaning forward you lift yourself high enough to wiggle your underwear down and off your legs, the cool air of the ship drags your attention to the uncomfortable wetness coating your cunt. The high pitched squeak as he suddenly presses his thigh up echoes through the empty space. 

“Stars, girl. You’re _dripping_.”

You look away, glaring at your boots tossed carelessly to the side. With an irritated huff you give your hips an experimental roll. It’s different—not something you would think about at first to get yourself off. But the hard surface, warm and soft unlike the man it belongs to, proves to be something worth thinking about.

Your pace is slow, careful not to let too many noises slip out, careful not to show how quickly your arousal is matacitizing and overflowing your entire being.

Your hips drag over the rock solid muscle, your movements stuttering as Boba clamps his hands over the swell of your hips. You squeak as he sets a rougher pace; faster and choppy that’s got you reeling in a burst of dizzying ecstasy.

At this point you’re not doing much— _stars_ —he’s forcing out your pleasure with each lecherous pull of your cunt against his thigh. You can feel your own sticky warmth coating his skin and giving away just how fucking wrecked you are.

Your head rolls back onto your shoulders as your eyes squeeze shut. “Boba—this— _fuck_.”

The touch of his fingers, sans those heavy duty gloves, sends an electric volt from the base of your spine to your brain. When did _those_ come off?

You don’t stop rocking back and forth even as Boba’s thumb parts your lips and slides it through the soaked slit. Your clit, swollen and throbbing catches on the digit and fuck—fuck what did you get yourself into?

Fuck dying. You could do this forever.

You still as two fingers press at your entrance, circling around the clenching flesh. You whine and cant forward, digging your nails into the soft undershirt covering Boba’s belly.

“Maker—put them in.”

You don’t care that he laughs at your desperation. All you care about are those thick, calloused fingers pushing into your cunt. Your lower half is twitching, _yearning_ for him

as he finally does so. Allows you to have this one last pleasure before you’re off to the gallows. Consumed by ill-fated misery and accompanied by death himself.

It doesn’t take you long after this. His fingers are long and curl deliciously against that toe-curling patch of nerves. It’s all he does, forcing you to fuck yourself onto the digits as his thumb rubs a patterned shape over your clit. He’s lazy and if you weren’t caught up in your own bought of pleasure you’d say he were _bored_.

Everything tightens up stiffer than a fucking rod of steel as your tumble off that aching moutain of white hot pleasure. It doesn’t start from your toes and steadily work its way up--no. It’s raw, sparking off like firecrackers and burning you from the inside out. Your core clamps down on his fingers, your thighs shaking as you curl inward as if he punched you in the fucking gut. It feels like he did. Maker—it feels like you were thrown into a vat of electricity.

Your face is smashed against his cuirass, involuntary tears pricking at your eyes as the last little waves of pleasure fan out and fry the rest of your nerves. You whine as he removes his hand from your pulsing core, tilting your head up to push the slick digits into your mouth.

You’re too fucked out, exhausted and throat raw, unable to complain as he makes you lick off your own arousal. Too soon after extracting his fingers from your mouth he shifts and tilts your body off of his. You hiss as the chilly metal bites into the flesh of your thighs, but it’s a chore to pull your pants back on. They’re lying across the floor out of reach anyhow.

The bounty hunter is quick in his movements to pull up his trousers and grab his codpiece. He doesn't replace it over himself just yet, giving you ample time to recall just what you had asked of him from before. 

What that entailed. If you _earned_ it. 

“Um. Are--” How do you even put this into words? “I--”

He sighs, the noise like static through a busted comm system, and cocks his head to the side. “I’m doing you a favor.” 

No. 

_No_. That’s not _fair_.

“Bu--”

“If you’re to die, Rabbit, then it ought to be by the people you’ve betrayed.” 

His words leave you colder than than the metal grating, sweeping through your chest and hollowing out everything save for bitter regret. 

You hate that he’s right. 


	2. Tough Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me at @jangofctts on Tumblr!!!

It’s a grueling ride to Coruscant. Even with a midway stop to refuel, it takes more than a couple weeks to arrive. 

You _wish_ Boba Fett had thrown you into the carbon freezer. 

It’s… _boring_ down here. 

The bounty hunter had left you alone, preferring to lock himself away inside the cockpit. Not like you’d want him anywhere but there, that is. He’s not some circus clown meant to entertain an impartial audience—you’re his _quarry_. A quarry worth a quarter million credits. 

The rare occasion you do see him is humiliating as is. Monitored refresher brakes and the singular hellacious shower incident. True, all he had done was wrestle your kicking and screaming self into the little cubicle then proceed to _lock_ you in—and yet…Never in the entirety of your existence had you encountered anything more _glacial_ than that water. 

_Stars_ —you swear he has a direct pipeline to _Hoth_. 

With fingers frozen and teeth chattering so hard they rattled your skull, you made quick work of scrubbing at your hair and body. It’s a miracle you survived certain death by hypothermia, even more so you haven’t caught a cold in the following hours. 

There are limited chances to protest and rebel, close to zero in fact. He’s proven to be stronger on more than one occasion, man-handling and knocking you around like some squeaky toy left to be chewed on for some oversized loth-cat. 

He’s taken away the sole thing you’ve craved since coming aboard this ship; ripped it from your fingers and shattered it upon a duracrete floor. You’ve never chosen the petty undertaking after flustered nerves and lost arguments in life; it festers and twists into malice like a weight over your chest. But you’re no longer there. 

_Here,_ after the first meal bar landed in your lap, you surrendered your pride and tore into that idle act of revenge. 

The meal bars thrown at your feet now begin to pile up; the one small defiance you can spare. It’s either this or throw your head against the wall until you pass out. Tragically and against your own volition, the imagery your brain provides for it forms a bubble of unease in the pit of your stomach. The sight of your own blood makes you queasy anyhow. 

It’s not ideal. You’re knifing _hungry,_ but your act of defiance works. Faster than you’d originally thought as the second sleep cycle rolls around. 

Boba Fett’s spurs chink against the front of his boots, the glare of the shiny metal catching against the dim lighting. He doesn’t carry a meal bar this time. Instead all he brings is an ion storm filled with buzzing irritation you can feel crackle against your skin. Your eyes sweep up his figure as he plants himself before you, his head tipped down to meet your half-hearted glare. 

With a long sigh, squats and lifts up one the meal bars, the shiny wrapper crinkling under the pressure as he points it in your direction. “I’m not interested in delivering a corpse.”

“I’m not _hungry_ ,” you quip, turning your head to glower into the murky darkness of the ship. 

You jump, a pitiful squeak escaping your vocal cords as he throws the bar at your feet and lunges. His hand clamps around the binders, the roar of your heart deafening against your eardrums as he yanks you in close. 

“What is it you want?” He snarls, “A _deal?_ ” 

“I see how you treat your _deals_ ,” you bite back, straining against his grip. “You’re a _liar_ and a cheat.” 

Boba wrenches you forward, the tip of your nose skimming the edge of the tinted visor from how close he leans in. “ _Careful_ , Rabbit. If I recall _correctly_ , you offered me a _favor_ not a contract.”

Despite the inky blackness of the visor, you could easily mistake it with the intensity of a dying star. You’re caught in that same familiar, lecherous pull from before. It feels wrong to be brought so close; like dancing over the serrated edge of a blade, not meant for a mortal soul to be wandering along. 

“I’ll ask again.” He states, the leather squeaking as his fingers clench tighter. “What is it you want?”

There’s no bargaining for a merciful death. You’ve seen how that would play out. All your cards are exhausted and spent and the only thing you’re left to bargain for are simple accommodation before you’re appointment with a firing squad. 

“No more binders. At least for more than a couple hours.” You rush out, afraid if you don’t speak with haste he’ll cut you off. “And…and I want a blanket. It’s—it’s cold.” 

He considers this, each second like a poorly wired hyperdrive—seconds from imploding. You let out a shaky breath as you catch the near imperceptible nod. “Is that all?” 

“Yes…I-I think.” 

He snorts. “You _think_? What else do you _require_ , Rabbit?” 

You ignore the sarcasm dripping through the syllables like melted sugar. Be it intimidation or your own hormones betraying your rational mind, your eyes dip down. You curse yourself for his perceptiveness. 

It comes with the job you suppose. _No one_ becomes the best bounty hunter in the parsec using untrained eyes. 

“You know, girl,” he chuckles, a gravelly rasp against the vocoder. “I could…return the _favor_.”

If you had it your way, wielding an iron grip of control on your own body, you’d stop the tidal wave of crackling arousal from licking at your heels and settling in the pit of your stomach. It’s a rush of electricity guilt yet you’re able to reign in your tongue and speak; as shaky and unsure as it is. “What makes you think I want anything _more_ to do with you?”

“There’s no harm changing your mind,” he says. Boba cocks his head to the side and rocks forward, capturing and twirling a lock of your hair around his fingers. “As you said—you’ll die soon anyhow.”

With a goading tug on your hair he sits up, the tinkle of his spurs filling the space as he saunters a couple paces away. He smooths a hand over a large cargo crate, the leather glove rasping against the wood and with a sigh, he sits. He settles his back against it, your eyes not once leaving his figure, entranced by each subtle movement and swish of his cloak that bunches beneath him. 

“Come claim your favor, Rabbit,” Boba purrs, crossing his legs and leaning further into the cargo crate. He’s awfully nonchalant—like a loth-cat furled out in the sun. Though you know, behind the undisturbed facade, one wrong move and he’ll pounce; sink those razor sharp talons into exposed flesh. 

“ _Anything?_ ” 

If you could see his eyes, you imagine he’d be rolling them. He pats his thigh. “Why don’t you sit on my lap and then we’ll talk.”

You don’t think about the fact that this is worse than before. That you’re letting yourself clamber over his crossed legs and into his lap. You hate that the crackling fire, greedy and dark, burns through your core as if it had never had a taste of pleasure before. 

His hands skim up your thighs, covered and impersonal. You don’t let that kernel of disappointment wiggle into your thoughts—it’s bad enough you’re _here_. In spite of this, you think _, fuck it._ You might as well. Your life is such a shit show anyhow might as well _indulge_. 

You hiss in surprise as your crotch meets the unforgiving metal codpiece. “Take it off?” 

“ _You_ take it off, Rabbit.”

Your teeth clamp down into the inside of your cheek. _Bastard_. _Cocky, smug,_ _asshole_ —

The list could go on forever and despite the irritation snapping inside your chest like a cut wire, your fingers find the latches to the dark green codpiece. You’re rough taking the blasted thing off, delighting in the bounty hunter’s little chagrined grunt as you tug and pull without much caution. 

“ _Careful_.” 

You shoot the best glare you can muster and stick your tongue out, jolting as his fingers dig into the flesh of your ass in retaliation. With a clatter the codpiece falls off; the thick swell of his cock creating an attractive line against the white fabric. 

The same trepidation returns. You’re digging your own grave here, shoveling through dirt and tough layers of gravel in order to toss yourself in. It shouldn’t be this _easy_ to convince yourself to fall into those greedy claws of arousal.

“ _Well?_ ” Boba challenges, snaking a hand around the swell of your waist. “Get moving before I change my mind.” 

“What do you suggest I _do_ then?” You snip, exasperated by his indignant shrug. 

With a low hum he anchors his hold over your hips and yanks you further over his crotch. “You could be a good girl and get yourself off.”

You swallow, chewing on the edge of your lip. “Like this? Nothing else?” 

“I don’t know, Rabbit,” he sighs, “but it feels _good_ , doesn’t it?” 

Before you can ask, he rolls his hips up, pressing the firmness of his cock against your covered cunt. You gasp and rock into him, a hand shooting out to grab at his shoulder pauldron. His snort of amusement only encourages your spiral into madness as he allows you to set your own pace; a timid and shallow undulation of you hips that only serves to amp up the craving and not sate it in the slightest. 

_Stars_ , it’s hard to think like this. Every spark of pleasure is a catalyst to the inferno that tears through the fabrics of your being. It’s an effortless process to forget _who_ you’re using to get off; easy to tumble into that pit of pleasure with each buck of your hips. 

Your cries are harsh, an incoherent string of curses and his name all thrown into one. _Fuck_ —it’s blinding. The catch and pull of the fabric against your clit and the hardness of his cock that presses against your inner thigh; pitching quite an impressive tent in those creamy white trousers. 

It rushes up, searing and white-hot that’s got your whole figure into stiffening and catapulting into bliss. With a groan your head dips onto his shoulder, the scent of plasma and an undercurrent of smoke lingering on the fabric of his cowl. Your hips still rock into his lap, riding out the last dregs of pleasure. 

In retrospect you should have known. Deduced that this favor claimed as _yours_ would shift into something completely _his_. He’s never satisfied with the terms unless he gets the larger cut. 

Just as your hips begin to slow, he readjusts his grip and grinds his straining cock against your sensitive pussy. 

Boba’s hands, one cradling your spine while the other clamps down over you ass is an anchor so unyielding it’d take a ship cutter to brake; he’s heaving your body into they jerky and erratic roll of his hips, too far gone to care about technique or poise. Just a means to an end—desperate for release. His breathy grunts reverberate through the vocoder, near deafening this close to your ear as the hand resting between your shoulder blades, latches onto the back of your neck. 

If not for the intensity of your orgasm, devastating and still wracking through your body in tiny jolts of lingering pleasure, you’d have fought his hold. Instead, you allow Boba to urge you forward, the cool metal a shocking contrast against your forehead in comparison to your flushed state. His own head is bowed against yours, playing into that foreign sense of intimacy as he finds his release. 

With a stuttered groan, his fingers harpoon into your flesh and cums. 

His chest heaves, fervent gulps of air harsh and distorted by the vocoder as he winds down from his high. You’re no better; your breath fans across the visor, the humidity painting a foggy layer of perspiration over the visor as your body still quivers with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s the first one to part; jerks his head away as if you’ve burned him. 

In the following seconds, it’s as if your eyes are glued to that visor. There’s no telling wether you’re moments away from being _slaughtered_ or allowed to sustain this little charade he’s put you through. 

“ _Oh, Rabbit_ …” A shiver tears down your spine as he glances between your bodies. There’s a wet patch, the fabric dampened by both your combined releases staining the front of his trousers. “What a waste.” 

You gasp as his hand curls around the column of your throat, your cunt clenching as the pressure tightens. With once last, teasing squeeze his fingers move to tangle into your hair. “Clean up your mess.” 

With a not so gentle yank on the strands you’re coerced into clambering off Boba’s lap. He guides your head forward, uncrossing his muscled legs to let you crawl up and settle between his thighs. 

Your hand quivers, somehow able to pop open the button and pull down the wet fabric. Smeared globs of his release stain the soft, dark skin, his cock still thick and swollen even after orgasm. Your tongue passes over your bottom lip as you lean in, a new, fresh wave of arousal carving through your frame. 

The taste isn’t horrid, still warm and mildly salty as you tongue laves at the crease of his thigh. Your tongue leaves a wet trail of saliva down to his balls, the skin velvety soft against your mouth. Boba jerks as you suckle them into the wet heat of you mouth, carefully swirling your tongue over them then tracing up to his softening cock. He grunts as you lick along his shaft, the flesh twitching as you lap up the rest of the sticky substance. 

Boba’s hand nudges at your forehead, then shifts and maneuvers himself out of your hold. Not a word is spoken as he pulls up his trousers and thumbs the button closed. He snatches up the codpiece laying pathetically on the ground and reattaches it around his groin. 

You don’t mean to flinch as he dips down—force of habit—even if all he does is reach for one of the abandoned meal bars. He pushes it into your hand; no room for arguments and perches himself against the cargo crate, one ankle crossed over the other as his arms fold over his cuirass. He dips his head, the message loud and clear to hold up your end of the deal. 

“You don’t have to watch me eat,” you mutter, biting off the corner of the foil with your teeth to open it. You roll a piece of the pasty food into a crumbly ball between your fingertips then pop it into your mouth. You grimace at the taste. _Bland_. A bit like dirt. 

Except…dirt has _flavor_. 

Not to mention the fact that he won’t stop _staring_. Tracking every move—unsettling and curbing your appetite into a mess of anxious knots. You don’t like being analyzed and monitored like an ill-tempered child. It’s a long shot to ask and receive an answer, but you’re desperate for anything to fill the silence. 

“How did…um…you find me?” 

_Kriff_ , you can’t even ask about anything _normal_ , can you?

Boba cocks his head to the side, letting that unnerving quiet draw out until you’re sure he won’t respond. And then; “People leave trails. Even _you_ , clever rabbit”

You force yourself to choke down another bite of the bar. “What was my trail then?”

You’re split between the desire to know what you did to ensure your capture while battling your queasy surprise that he’s chosen to indulge your questionings. “The pilot.”

A knife of dread, so sharp and swift it cuts through the layers of cartilage and bone; the blade lodging itself into your heart. “W-what?” 

“The Imperial one.”

_Elliria Beren._ _Elli_ — 

No. _No_ —that’s…he’s _toying_ with you. 

Dantooine is the last place you saw her. _Alive_. Wild, auburn hair blown from her braids caused by the windstorm that swept up through the grassy plains; the clouds, colossal and dark, swallowed up the sun as they rolled across the horizon. Her flight suit was hastily thrown on, rumpled and against regulations in the rush to help you. She told you to run—stole the TIE fighter to give you one last, undeserved chance. 

It feels like a broken promise stapled to the roof of your mouth as your mind dregs up the remnants of that day. She’d thrown her arms around you, crushing you to her chest, smelling like oncoming rain, and that contraband perfume she’d bought on Alderaan; a delicate sweetness you can hardly remember.

With Elliria, there was no fear; cradled in her arms and severed off from the world. There, you’ve done nothing wrong, you are not being chased by some relentless terror. You could sleep inside that moment. You could live inside that string of seconds. It would be fine. It would be perfect. You could escape and mend you fragmented heart strings. 

But you’re not there. 

You’re here. 

Here on a bounty hunter’s ship. _Here_ there is fear. There is great sorrow. There is a litany of sins and a throng of terrors devouring at your soul. You led her straight to her death. Right into the very jaws of the man who sits before you. You hadn’t even _considered_ she’d be caught. 

Your stomach churns and coils as bile pricks at your throat. What have you _done_. 

“I found her on Tatooine,” Boba continues, either enjoying your obvious horror or unabashedly oblivious.

_No_. _Stop fucking talking._ You bite back a choked sob as he raises a finger, tracing it across his cuirass. There—alongside the braided pieces of hair mounted as trophies, sits a red and blue ribbon. How _haven’t_ you seen it before? You were there when Elli was awarded the Imperial Medal of Valor—it’d been the first time you’d seen her smile in _months_. 

And now…now it hangs upon the pauldron of a bounty hunter as a conquest won. “She was a good shot—but I was _better_.” 

Your chest is a wall of fire; the air you breath constricted and hot as your throat mimics that of a too tight collar on a fancy suit. You don’t care that stinging tears spring from your eyes and carve burning paths down your cheeks. Grief and wrath spin inside your chest with the fierceness of a vortex all-consuming. You shouldn’t have _asked_. Shouldn’t have forced his hand into revealing that all you ever do is leave a wake of destruction behind you. 

The abrupt, sharp, buzz throughout the ship slices through your despair. The comm system is flashing, attempting to patch in a call. The moment he stands, your mind races with plots of vengeance. You have nothing but your fists, your sharp teeth and bitten off nails. You don’t _care_. 

He turns his back, his cloak rasping against the floor. 

A momentary lapse in judgment on his part to leave himself vulnerable to a quarry free from their binders. 

With a cry you launch yourself across the small space, hooking your arms around his neck. He shouts out a curse, the weight of your body causing his own to pitch backwards. All air punches out of your lungs as the back of your head cracks against the ground, the full weight of beskar platting slamming into your chest and stomach. 

Your hold around his vulnerable throat loosens, giving him more than enough wiggle room to spring up. Your fist snaps out, the skin over your knuckles splitting open as it connects with the sharp edges of his helmet. He scrabbles to contain your flailing hands, eventually ensnaring your writs between his fingers with ease. 

Bucking your hips and kicking your legs out does nothing to save you from Boba wrestling you onto your stomach, straddling your thrashing body, wrench up your arms, and snap out a new pair of binders. Boba snarls as your elbow manages to stab into a vulnerable gap in his armor, forcing him to throw his entire weight over you. 

You don’t mean to slam the side of your face into his helmet—hurts you more than it would ever him. But it’s satisfying to feel him jerk and hiss out a curse.

“ _Stop this_.” He barks, digging his forearm harder into the flesh of your shoulders. “You’re only hurting _yourself_.”

The blooming mark forming over your left eye socket is proof enough. The most damage, if any, would show up as bruise from where his own beskar had brutalized the skin or where your elbow had connected on his ribs. 

You want to _fight—_ tear into his flesh until he feels even an _ounce_ of the kind of pain he’s caused. Instead, he chooses something different. 

“I’m sorry about your friend.” 

_Friend_ doesn’t sound right. And _lover_ too bold. Feels overly simplistic; shallow to what you had with Elli. Like glossing over a three hundred page holonovel. “I _hate_ you.” 

There’s no malice, no gloating. Just… _sincerity_. “ _Truly,_ I am.” 

You don’t know what’s worse; the fact that there’s nothing to latch onto, bare your teeth and spit out words more jagged than broken glass or if it’s the hollow void that carves out the cavity in your chest. The frigid vacancy that follows after a forest burns; charred skeletons of a once lush forest. Everything in your life has been burned, flipped and torn inside out more than you care to think about. 

Stuck in that strange limbo between the devouring vortex of agony and revenge. Flirting with dull edged apathy that blankets the pain with buzzing static. 

You choose the latter. 

It’s _easier_. 

It’s not _fair_ Elli is dead. But there’s nothing you can do to change what happened. 

Some of that pressure bearing down on your spine eases as your body goes lax. You’re not sure how much time ticks away as you lie there against the dirty floor. Enough time to count the screws connecting the durasteel walls and the individual planks making up a cargo crate. You don’t care that Boba Fett continues to maintain his precarious position seated on your thighs, or the inquisitive touch between your shoulder blades. He isn’t the one to hate in this situation. _You_ are. 

That gentle, uncharacteristic touch smooths down the line of your spine, disappearing once it reaches your bound hands. 

“You’re such a tiny creature…” You don’t think it’s meant for your ears, more of an observation he lets slip than a conversation starter. Regardless, it sends a shiver from the base of your skull and down. 

With a curious hum, Boba shifts, slotting his hips against your ass. The added weight is uncomfortable, it digs your hip bones into the durasteel flooring. Yet, unlike the beskar codpiece supposed to be strapped to his groin, all you can feel is a different sort of hardness present.

“There’s still fight in you yet, Rabbit.” 

Your fingers curl into fists so tight the bite of your fingernails leave crescent shaped indents. His hands smooth along the waistband of your trousers, the soft leather tickling the sliver of exposed skin where you shirt became rumpled. “Does that _surprise_ you?” 

He huffs. “No. But you could put it to better use instead of attacking me.” 

“Like what? _Fucking_ you?” Bitter resentment builds like ash over you tongue, even if the idea of it sends a charged volt of interest down to your lower belly. 

Boba’s fingers crawl down your thighs. “I didn’t say that, but if you _insist_.” 

You scoff and wriggle. “You’re deplorable.” 

“Is that a yes, Rabbit?”

Maybe, you think as you nod your head, this will fill that torn void with temporary gratification. Steal away your thoughts and loose yourself something akin to the mind numbing affects of alcohol. 

Boba hums in acknowledgment, hooks his fingers around the elastic and yanks down, underwear included. You can feel the weight of his stare wracking down the newly exposed skin, pliable and wanton—and all for him. 

You squeak as he takes two, plentiful handfuls of your ass, spreading and massaging the flesh. It’s as if the only reason he exists is to _torment_ you. Pull from you the embarrassed flushes and ashamed squeaks. You’re relieved once he retreats. 

Though it’s not a moment later his hands are back over you. _Gloveless_. It’s a shock to your system feeling the scrape of calloused fingertips trail over the curve of your spine. A curious touch, one unfamiliar with the softness of skin, yet the fleeting presses rapidly turn into the only thing he knows. 

Your sharp inhale echoes into the ship as his fingers trail down the slit of your cunt, gliding through the slick, already leaking from your core, with ease. You jolt as his fingertip catches against the tiny bundle of nerves, the pressure teasing and light. Never enough to satisfy, just a cruel reminder just how easy it is to get you worked up. With a muted whimper, your hips twitch, silently begging for anything more. _Anything_ to fill your clenching cunt. 

He obliges with a smug chuckle, lazily pushing a finger into the ring of velvety muscle. You whine as he slips in another digit, scissoring and shallowly thrusting in out, thoroughly coating his hand with your arousal. Just as the buzzing strings of pleasure begin to build up, he extracts them. Frustration pierces through your sternum, your teeth clamping down over your tongue in order to quell your irritation. 

There’s a rustle of fabric and a harsh inhale from the man behind you as he closes the space between you. Your pussy clenches as the tip of him touches against your clit, the flesh searing and painfully hard. You shudder and exhale a long, stuttered breath. 

“I can tell you haven’t been fucked right,” he purrs, dragging the flushed head of his cock through your folds. “Why don’t we fix that?” 

Boba gives your thigh a swat and shifts, ready to align himself and sink into your clenching core. That heavy haze of pleasure is abruptly yanked out from beneath your feet, panic piercing through your heart with an alarming jolt. You seize up and jerk away. 

“ _W-wait!_ ” You gasp, hands wiggling against the binders. “I-I…uhm—“

“Don’t tell me you haven’t done this before, Rabbit.” He thinks it’s a _joke_. It _is_ a bit silly considering the circumstances— _yet_ here you are. Bent over and telling Boba Fett you’re a kriffing _virgin_. 

Your shamed silence and the heated flush that follows answers his question with crystalline clarity. 

“You’re _serious_.” 

“I’ve never been fucked, _ok?_ ” Your eyes squeeze shut as you let out a long exhale. “I just…never…”

Your piss-poor explanation tapers off into a gaping fissure of terse silence. _Maker_ , you should just throw yourself into a trash compactor— 

“I can change that,” he offers, trailing his palm over the globe of your ass. “If you’d like.” 

You swallow. Maybe in a different version of reality you’d consider a better option, but f _uck it._ You’re already here _._ “O-ok.”

“As you wish, Rabbit,” Boba complies. If not for the helmet you’re sure you’d see a smile curl across his face. “Just know—I don’t _do_ gentle.”

You would never _expect_ him to. Whatever civilized temperament he holds in not saved for anything but _hunting_ and aiming a blaster. You tense as your walls begin to stretch and accept the tip of his cock—alarm bells blare inside your head, terrified that it won’t _fit_. His hand smooths over your hip as he encourages you to _relax_ , let him sink in the rest of the way. His fingers find your clit, rubbing jerky patterns into the nerves as your cunt flutters and stitches wider for him. The sharp outline of his hips touch your ass, a sharp hiss of breath crackling out of the vocoder as he finally bottoms out. 

You’re so achingly full. No amount of fingers thrust up inside your cunt could compare to what you feel in this exact moment. Simultaneously split open and burning with white hot ecstasy with each involuntary jerk from the man inside you. There’s a minuscule pinch and ache as he pulls his hips back, the drag of his cock catching against each ridge and fold as you clench around him. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Boba swears, sheathing himself back inside with a forceful thrust. You squeak and pull against the binders. “You take it well.” 

There’s not much time between your next inhale and his hands anchoring around your hips, before he sets the pace; harsh and unyielding. Just as he promised, there is no buildup, just the violent roll and abrasive push inside you. 

There’s no time to familiarize yourself with this newfound sensation, just a frightening buildup that seizes you by surprise. It begins in belly, spreading through your bloodstream like the most virile poison. With another, devastating, surge of his cock into your pussy, you’re cast into that gaping bit of burning pleasure. 

Your vision whites out, your body arching and stiffening as you cry out. The fact that you’re squeezed so, _fucking_ tight around him, holds no hinderance to his pace. Just encourages him to go _faster_. There’s no mercy as he fucks you through orgasm, overworking those sensitive nerves and pushing them past your limit.

With a hiss of air the binders fall to the ground with a clatter; the noise barely heard in comparison to your stuttered cries and the obscene sounds of his cock burying itself into your cunt. Your shoulders burn as your hands slip beneath you, shaky and unsure of themselves, stabilizing yourself against the greedy pull of his hands. 

The rough callous of his palm sweeps up your back and forms a fist in your hair, urging your spine to arch as his thrusts take on a sharper rhythm.

Your core is a mess of knots, pulled tight and more pressurized than a airlock. Your nails scrabble against the metal flooring, your knees rubbed raw from the vicious momentum he’s achieving. _Fuck_ —this should’ve been your favor from the very _start_.

Those burning nerves, flooded with acute overstimulation, throws your body off that haphazard edge of another scorching orgasm. One that drags it’s sharpened nails down the curve of your spine, all the way done to your toes. 

“ _Fuck_ —fuck you’re tight,” he snarls, his hands squeezing your hips with vicious strength. “Keep squeezing me like that, Rabbit— _good girl._ ”

The top half of you buckles under the weight of ecstasy, weakened and unbothered by the new angle; his cock reaching deep. Your fluttering cunt and the high-pitched whines of his name are it takes for him to reach his end. 

He pulls out, ropes of his release landing over your ass in hot gushes. “ _Shit_.”

Boba’s cock still jumps and twitches as he drags it over your ass, rubbing his cum into the skin until the last dribble of his release dips above your tailbone. Quicker than you’d have liked he pulls away. Not far; just seats himself to your right and pulls up his trousers with a sigh. Eventually you’re able to trick yourself into moving; curling yourself into a little quivering ball as the aftershocks of pleasure prickle beneath your skin. 

You were right. It _did_ fill whatever grasping numbness inside your chest, but now you’re left to deal with it all over again. You’re glad your back is to him as lonesome tears trickle down your nose and into you mouth, filling it with the taste of salt and pain. 

“I didn’t kill her. If that makes a difference.” 

It’s muttered and hard to catch, but you hear it just the same as if he had yelled it into your ear with an amplifier. You crush that flicker of hope with an iron fist as it flutters inside your stomach. “But?”

“But your Empire made sure that she was.” 

It doesn’t make a difference. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to the end mother fuckers 
> 
> come scream at me at @jangofctts on Tumblr


	3. Don't Push Your Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF sorry this took so LONg. 
> 
> @jangofctts on Tumblr

It’s impossible not to count down the days, the hours, the _seconds_ leading up to your untimely end. A sleep cycle and half to be exact. A perfect amount of time to finish counting each loose wire and rusty screw holding together this heap of junk—a miracle really, that it’s able to jump to hyperspace, let alone _fly_. 

You’re no expert on the inner workings of a spacecraft, but your familiarity with Imperial grade cruisers gift you the _impeccable_ skill of deducing that the hiss of air every couple minutes out of the hydraulic piping is not _ideal_. Nor is the solar light overhead that flickers and hums, skirting the precarious line of exploding in your face or simply plunging the cargo hold into murky darkness. 

At this point you’d take _either_. 

You sigh, resting the back of your head against the wall as the barbed tendrils of an oncoming headache settles behind your eyes. 

Between that, the stupid light, _and_ your boredom; it’s enough to make anyone stir crazy. _Stars—_ even the arduous task of talking to Boba Fett is morphing into something akin to craving. Even _if_ his idea of a _conversation_ runs parallel to the art of smug, male pride and snide words meant to pick and prod—it’s better than whatever _this_ is. 

Scoffing, you curl your knees up to your chest and rest your chin over your knee. _This is pathetic._

You should _despise_ him—feel like kicking his teeth in—or helmet— _whatever_. He aided in the killing of you friend—probably took care of all the other poor souls who even _dared_ to _breathe_ your way too. Boba Fett is a despicable, no good _bounty hunter_ who finds _far_ too much fun in the misfortune of others. 

And yet… 

The task of attaching your hate to the man is proving to be more difficult than you would’ve guessed. You don’t regret what you’ve done with him—far from it in fact—but your tolerance, bordering _enjoying_ his company, is concerning. To say in the least. 

Nothing good will come out of the conflicted ball of knots that settle in your chest, ensnaring your heartstrings into that endless monstrosity. 

Though none of it stops the way your chest constricts, heart skipping a few vital beats at the familiar sound of his spurs resonate through the ship. They chink against the metal pegs of the ladder, boots settling on the ground with a heavy _thump_. A moment later Boba steps into your line of sight, tattered cloak and chipped armor in all its battered glory. 

He isn’t an immanent threat, but your eyes still track each movement. The rational part of you _knows_ he won’t lash out, but you’re still his _quarry_ andeven a wolf with a severed head has the power to bite. No part of you wants to brave the sharp points of his teeth. 

Not even a fraction of his attention is thrown your way as he does his routine inspections of your fellow captured quarries, frozen in their carbonite prisons. You just hope none of them spontaneously reanimate—you’re not too _keen_ on another shipmate. Your little corner is crowded as is and _forget_ sharing your blanket. It’s tattered and smells like dust and mothballs and you have a sneaking suspicion it’s just one of Boba’s old cloaks he outgrew—but you’re thankful for it anyhow. 

You flinch as he punches in a code, the loud grate of metal on metal piercing your ears as the carbonite slabs swing back into their storage space. With an incline of his head, his weighted gaze settles on your person.

“Still nervous?”

You sniff and shake your head. “You just…startled me is all.” 

Boba snorts in disbelief and pads closer. He reaches the toes of your boots and squats, one gloved forearm resting over his knee as the other reaches out to capture a lock of your hair. He twirls it between his fingers and gently tugs, quiet as he studies you behind the visor. The action is familiar—doesn’t scare you as much as it once did, but his closeness still overwhelms. 

“I see you’ve found some courage, gentle Rabbit,” he surmises, untangling his fingers from your hair to tap beneath your chin. “While we’re at it…any last _favors_ I can provide?” 

It’s whiplash—so stupefying it renders your tongue speechless, a heated blush rushing up your cheeks and to the tip of your ears. He snickers and shakes his head, rocking back onto his heels to stand as you sputter for words. 

It’s a joke—a _garbage_ one at your _expense. Always_ at the butt-end of things with no room to snap back. Yet, as he turns on his heel to return to the cockpit—it’s the perfect opportunity. Not the sort of _favor_ he’d be expecting, but a favor nonetheless. 

_“_ Can I—“ He pauses and casts a glance over his shoulder as you muster enough bravery to follow through. “Do you think I could—could sit in the cockpit? Just for a little while…” 

It’s a long-shot—like launching a flimsy javelin at a target no larger than a thumbtack three thousand clicks away. _Not happening_ —more likely to beat a rancor in a fucking _wrestling_ match then sway the bounty hunter’s opinion. Regardless, the question must stun him—the terse silence drags on for an agonizing amount of time, amping up your anxiety tenfold. 

“I’m sorry—I just—I wanted to see the stars one last time,” you mumble, curling into yourself with a wince. “It’s stupid—“ 

“It’s hyperspace—not much to look at.” He curtly interrupts. “An asteroid if you’re lucky.” 

Your spirits plummet further—scraping against the dirt like a crashed speeder geared to the highest velocity and headed _straight_ for a brick wall. _Maker_ this was _dumb—_

“The _second_ you try anything _funny—_ “

You perk up, your spine straightening as he turns swiftly on his heel and marches back. He leans down at the waist, firmly ensnaring your chin between his forefinger and thumb, straining the muscles in your neck. “—you’ll end up in _there_.” 

He jerks his head over his shoulder at the carbonfreezer. _Yeah_. _No thank you_. Absolutely zero interest in becoming a human popsicle. 

“You won’t even notice I’m there,” you breathe, holding your stare steady. “Promise.” 

Boba hums in thought, releases your chin and pats your cheek. He straightens and taps at his vambraces and with a hiss of air the stasis cuffs around your wrists clatter to the floor. You stand and sigh, rubbing at the angry raised lines, just shy from a dark bruise. 

The bounty hunter ushers you towards the ladder, his hand anchored to your shoulder. You stop yourself from scoffing. The action is useless—you’ve got no clever scheme up your sleeve or malicious motive but you can never be _too_ cautious you suppose—not with this line of work. 

You try not to snoop once you clamber up into the second level—but _Maker—_ it’s _interesting_. There’s a small bunk on the other end of the short corridor, messy blankets thrown on top and a deconstructed blaster that’s seen better days. Gray and off-white undershirts hang off the metal rigging on the bunk and the sight of his _laundry_ is undoubtedly _jarring_. It’s silly not to think he _doesn’t_ do laundry _but_ —imagining the most feared bounty hunter in the Galaxy washing his tidy whities is _hilarious._

“Come on,” Boba urges, nudging your shoulder with his own.

Your tiny smile never falters as he leads you into the domed cockpit, the neon blue of hyperspace reflecting across his chipped armor with miniature streaks of light. He gestures at the co-pilot’s seat tucked beside the com board, a litany of buttons blinking and flashing as you gingerly sit. 

The hinges squeak as the chair spins, your eye catching the mess of beaded and jeweled necklaces that hang on a tiny hook above the board. You recognize a few—Kashyykian ceremonial beads, the glittering coil of pure, refined diamonds from Pantora and the braided strands of bantha leather common on Tatooine. Your fingers drift up and thumb at the carved wooden Wroshyr beads. 

_Trophies—_

“Don’t touch those.”

You jump and yank your hand back. “So...all I can do is...sit?” 

“Isn’t that what you _asked_ for?” 

You have to agree—there isn’t much to look at. Hyperspace, as _fascinating_ as it is, looses its charm once the vertigo sets in. To be honest—you weren’t expecting to _get_ this far. 

_Oh well._

A change in scenery is always nice. Different loose wires and screws to count…

_And_ the seat spins. _Score_. 

Boba however, does not share in your bemused sentiments. Your mopey sighing and the constant squeak of loose bearings on your spinny chair is not pleasant to the ear, apparently. 

“If you’re _that_ bored, Rabbit,” he sighs, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. “You could always put those hands to work.” 

You pause and swipe a finger through the dust between the toggles on the comm board and absentmindedly respond. “I don’t think I’d be much help. I’m not very technically inclined and _oh_ —“

Your cheeks flush when he tilts his head. “You, uh...didn’t mean _that_ sort of work, did you?” 

Boba snorts and crosses his ankle over his knee and rests his helmet on the headrest. The stretched out figure of his body is alluring—fascinating to studying each nick and scratch on his armor without the repercussions of _him_ staring _back_. His vambraces clink against his cuirass as he laces his fingers together, resting his hands just above his codpiece. 

“Do you need something, Rabbit?” 

You swallow, your eyes flicking back up to a more _respectable_ place for them to linger. “Um..n-no. I’m fine. Just…”

He rolls his head to the side, the shadows from hyperspace carving out the sharp lines of his helmet into an even deeper dramatic cut. You squirm and focus your eyes on the frayed laces of your boots. 

“It’s alright. You can tell me, sweet girl.” His goads, tempting you out onto that slippery slope of desire. 

He uncross his legs and uses the tip of his boot to languidly spin himself around, his knees spread wide in a display of mock easiness. Boba’s thumbs drum against his ammo belt, the quiet, rhythmic _tap…tap…tap…_ the only sound filling the charged silence. It’s the Academy all over again; sat down and scrutinized until you crack—spill every secret until they’re satisfied— and Boba Fett is _no_ different… 

You scramble for words, wrangling your thoughts into something somewhat comprehensive. “I’m—I—well—“

He cocks his head, light bouncing off the silvery pockmark on his helmet. Boba’s hand idly travels lower, brushes off imaginary dust on his thigh and settles his fingers over the clasps to this codpiece. His thumb flicks it open then closed, all too keen on where your eyes are glued to. 

“You want your hands on my cock again? Is that it?” Boba purrs in amusement. You tongue passes over your lip as you wrench your eyes off of him yet again. 

“There’s no need to be play _coy_ , girl,” Boba snickers, “ _Tell me_.” 

The words jump out of your mouth—no forethought and apparently not an _ounce_ of self control. “ _Yes_ —I want...to p-put my hands on you.” 

“On me or my cock?” 

You mouth goes dry as you mumble out a feeble agreement. “Your…cock.”

Boba huffs in self satisfaction. “Come here then.” 

On already shaky legs you stumble out of your seat and plant yourself in front of him. You have no visual confirmation but the hair-raising sensations as his eyes rake down your body sends shivers up your spine. 

Your mouth parts, but before you’re even able to _ask_ what he wants—he beats you to it. 

“Your choice, Rabbit.” 

_Not helpful_ , you think. 

Regardless of the lack of _direction,_ you chew on the inside of your cheek and slowly lower yourself onto your knees, sliding easily between his parted legs. The only indication you know he’s aware you’re _there_ is a quick shift of his hips, settling further into the leather cushion. 

His leg jumps involuntarily as your fingers skim up his knee. If you weren’t interested in receiving a _lovely_ black eye, you’d have the nerve to accuse him of being ticklish. 

Biting the corner of your lip to stave off your coy smile, your hand continues its path up along his inner thigh. There’s a short huff of air that filters through the vocoder as your fingertips reach the codpiece. They brush over the circular dent left by a blaster, curiosity piqued at the strange location. 

You want to ask— _but—_ the thought is fleeting, far more interested in finding the tiny clasps on the side that easily pop open, the offending piece of armor going lax in your grip. You toss it to the side with little hesitation, greeted by the firm outline of his cock filling out the front of his trousers. 

Boba Fett is not a patient man and your lecherous gawking, enough to notice, irks him. With a grunt he snakes his fingers around your hand and presses it against his cock. He rolls his hips, guiding your hand into applying a firmer touch until you’re palming him without the extra help. You give the hardening flesh a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

By the time your hand sweeps up to ease off the heavy ammo belt around his waist, the bulge in his pants is considerable—a fucking _pain_ to maneuver around as you tug down his trousers into a dramatic ‘v’. Boba’s hand, hanging off the arm rest, jerks the moment your fingertips brush along the dark curls, trailing up and taking a hold of his cock with a careful grip. 

He’s heavy in your hand, thicker than the circumference of your forefinger and thumb pressed together, and harder than kriffing _durasteel_. You can feel his watchful gaze carve a burning path over the contours of your face, drifting to where you hold him. 

He grumbles an inaudible complaint under his breath, curling his fists by his sides. Despite his obvious irritation with your feathery touches, he lets you continue without so much as a grumpy sigh or snippy redirection. You preen at the small victory, delighted you’re able to explore before the short rope of his patience runs thin and snaps. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through the vocoder as you lightly tug on his cock, mesmerized by the firmness and the searing heat beneath your palm. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the dark flesh, flushed and pulsing as wetness pools at the tip as you pull down the foreskin, exposing the entirety of the wide head.

With your thumb you spread the bead of liquid around, intent on continuing your little exploratory endeavor until Boba shifts and grumbles out an order to stop. 

“Not like that,” he huffs, laying his fingers over yours that hold his cock. “ _Harder_.” 

A fiery blush licks at your cheeks as he squeezes both sets of fingers into a firm fist, leading your hand into the pace he desires. 

It’s rough, much firmer than you’d think would be pleasurable—but you oblige. The wetness that dribbles from the flushed tip lessens the friction but with quick lick over your palm, he glides easily in your hand. Boba’s head rolls back against the headrest, exposing a sliver of brown skin beneath the lip of his helmet. 

It’s not long before your wrist aches—just shy of a couple moments. Luckily enough for you and your poor hand musculature, it doesn’t take more than a handful of minutes—rough and with no real discernible technique other than just fucking into your fist. Boba’s knee jerks as he lifts his head and arches his hips, chest heaving with shallow inhales. 

“Take it in your—in your mouth,” he orders in a rough rasp. His chest heaves as his hand finds purchase in your hair, jerking your head closer to his cock. It stings— _Maker_ , why does he pull so _hard?_

With a huff, you listen and part your lips. The tip of his cock slips into your heated mouth, twitching as your tongue rolls against the small slit leaking a near continuous stream of precum. With a couple short tugs and a gentle suck around the head, his fist clenches tight and drags you further down his shaft.

You gag around him, a low grunt rattling through his diaphragm as he cums. It’s warm, thick and fills your mouth, but the heavy weight on the back of your head leaves you no other choice than to swallow. Boba curses, cock still twitching when he lets you up and pulls out of your mouth. You gasp for precious air as you wipe off your lips with your sleeve, sparring a look up at the bounty hunter. 

The reclined figure of his body molds into the chair, a strip of dark skin peeking out from beneath the cowl has his head rests back against the seat. His fingers twitch when you shift, squirming as the twisting heat in your lower stomach festers and grows. 

You watch his throat bob as he speaks, “If you want something...take it.” 

The hard enamel of your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you carefully rock forward, dragging yourself off the ground. It takes a moment to shuck off your pants and perch yourself over his knees after shimming his trousers further down his legs. Boba only bothers to look up with lazy interest once your cunt, soaked and smeared over your inner thighs presses against his upper legs, wetting the muscled limbs. 

You steel your nerves against the sharp analytical gaze through the carved lines of his vizor and give your hips a tentative roll along the length of his softening cock. For all you know he could be asleep—yet you have a sneaking suspicion as to what his eyes are glued to. You’re no idiot. 

Boba’s gloved fingertips skim up your thigh, tempted to go higher but instead they drop back onto the armrests. You chew the inside of your lip, shooing away the urge to frown. _Whatever_ —dwelling upon the quick movement is best left in the dark.

He sucks in a sharp breath of air as you rock your hips for a second time, your slick folds gliding smoothly along his member. It’s a light pressure, no more than a gentle caress so as not to overwhelm—but nonetheless still pleasurable, sating that untamable fire that burns bright in your belly. 

Your eyes drift back to those white gloves, his fists balled and stationary on the armrest. You want them on you. You want to feel his callouses scrape over your skin—one last craving you need to put an end to. 

It’s a risk—a _big_ one. Yet, throwing your worries out the window is easier than your indecisiveness.

Both your hands slowly crawl over the white gloves, cautious in pulling them off as if he were some rabid Nexu ready to bite. He is, in a way and your sneaky little ploy certainly does _not_ go unnoticed. 

Boba jerks his hands up the arm rests. “What makes you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

His tone is _scathing_ —knocks you so far off that small pedestal of bravery you’ve mustered and leaves you wilting. You should’ve known, stopped while you were ahead. Though knowing in the back your mind that something like _this_ would happen, doesn’t take away from the razor sharp embarrassment that cuts through your chest.

Your forearm shoots up to rub away the burning itch of tears that threaten to fall, your head turning away in a mixture of shame and regret. _Stupid_ —

You’re about to retreat, slide off his lap like a miserable pile of goo, but the delicate touch on your chin, coaxing you to face him startles you. Even more so when he tugs at the offending glove and brushes a bare finger down your cheek, a mere whisper against your skin. “You have a soft heart.” 

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he slips the other glove off, settling one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other tentatively slip between your legs and presses against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. 

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him and with a firm hand, he parts your soaking cunt and thrusts two of his fingers inside, grinding the heel of his palm into the little bundle of nerves. 

With a chuckle his hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. “ _Good_ little Rabbit—cum on my fingers.”

Your body seizes as white hot heat sears through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a long whine filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around his fingers. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body after your euphoric high. You’re barely conscious of your actions as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. With a satisfied hum, he slips them out, allowing your head to finally rest against his chest. 

His hands are warm around your hips, tracing little patterns into the exposed skin—so light you’re sure you’re imagining it. You chide yourself—there’s no space for these kind of things. Not now. 

The beskar is an uncomfortable thing to lay your cheek on—cold too—yet his soft sigh convinces you to stay put. Just for another second, suspended in a strange intimacy that neither of you should be dipping your toes into. 

A gentle hush encompasses the cockpit, lulling you into a light doze. Though as your eyes struggle to stay open, the subtle inhale before a sentence is spoken keeps them from shutting. You wonder if he’ll muster the courage to speak or if he’ll let the words settle back into that lake teeming with uncovered mysteries and things better left unsaid. 

“What would you do...” The beginning of his words tapers off as if he could pretend you wouldn’t hear it. It’s low, almost...uncertain. _Well_ , as uncertain as Boba Fett could be with a head so full of his arrogance and pride. 

His fingers drift higher up your back, ghostlike and teasingly soft.You hate the goosebumps that are left in the wake of his bare fingertips crawling up your spine. Swallowing, your fingernail taps at the chipped paint and circles the little brand on his cuirass. “Do what?” 

He doesn’t answer right away—chewing on his words like they’ve stuck to the roof of his mouth and don’t intend to leave. He shifts and you’re afraid he’s about to shove you off his lap and storm away, but all he does is clear his throat and settle a palm on your upper back. “If I...if I let you go. What would you do?” 

Your brows furrow, your heart kicking up into a rapid flurry of panic. That’s not fair—that’s not _fair_ of him to _say_. You look up, your own twisted features staring back at you in the muted spectrum of blacks and grays in his visor. This is a _joke_ —another one of his games to push you over the edge while he gets to bask in his idea of proclaimed hilarity. “That’s not funny.” 

“It’s not supposed to be.” 

You ball your hand into a fist as a tidal wave of resentment, followed with chilly anguish washes over you. Your head spins and battles with opposing opinions and reasons why he should just go through with delivering you to his employer. Be done with it and get his moneys worth without any consequence. 

And yet, there’s a minuscule part of you, sprouting away from the dark cloud of inevitability, that wonders. Wonders if you should fight—convince him you deserve to live, untangle you from the disastrous web the Empire has cast around your limbs with no hope of escape. You sigh and shut your eyes. 

“I’d never escape from the Empire even if you _did_ ,” you murmur. “The only time I’d be free is if I were _dead_.”

<><><><><><><><>

He promised himself that this would _never_ happen. 

_Never_ let his own desires and emotions interfere with a job. 

It’s irresponsible, bad for business and frankly quite _stupid_. This could cost him his credibility, his credits, his _life_. 

You don’t double cross your employer—it’s the first rule of business that even a _child_ would understand. 

Boba Fett is cunning and _clever;_ always one step ahead of his enemies. _Always_ methodical, refusing to leave _any_ loose ends that even _hint_ at coming back around to bite him in the ass. He’s convinced himself that a will of iron is necessary—the only way to survive and to grow stronger than those who’ve hurt him— _bested_ him in the game of life. 

Cold, methodical, _a legend._

And you…

You are _soft_. Gentle and too _kind_ for someone to be caught up in this sort of mess. He shouldn’t be delivering you to Death’s doorstep in exchange for credits. You should be off living on some remote planet, far out of the reaches of the Empire. Away from _him._ Billions of miles from his bloody fingertips that stain your skin like black ink against a white canvas. 

But you’ve made your choices and he’s made his. 

And none of it soothes the festering storm, with winds more forceful than those on Kamino, that rattle through his ribcage. It tears through his sternum, cuts through the beskar and leaves an open wound—raw and tender that grows tenfold the second your eyes land on him. 

You don’t beg when he hoists you up from the floor, no blubbering tears or last minute bargains to spare your life. Not even as you both reach the loading ramp, one mere tap of the button that would reveal you both to the man waiting on the landing platform. One button and he’d be free of you. You’re braver than most. 

He’ll give you that. 

He shouldn’t have said anything—saved himself from the steady ache that comes with having to look you in the eye. Drives a stake so _deep_ into his chest the second you spare him a precious smile that twinkles like unrefined coaxium and _thank him_. You’re _thanking him_ for the barest amount of kindness he offered to you on your last days of life. 

Boba isn’t sure who he hates more; himself or you. 

He must be staring too long—committing each soft slope and contour of your cheeks, the freckles, your softly parted lips, to memory—because the gentle nudge to his arm startles him. 

“I’ll be alright,” you grin. You make a poor impression of a blaster with your finger and thumb and mimic the sound of it firing. “One shot to the head and I’m gone.” 

“I know how blasters work.”

You shrug and glance at his hand that hovers over the button. “Then why are you hesitating?”

The million credit answer. One that you both know the answer to. 

“Because you won’t be dying. Not today and not while _I’m_ still alive.” 

_ <><><><><><><><><><><>_

The outfit is _garish_. 

Too white.

Too _clean_. 

A color that deceives his true nature and masks what he truly is— a viper laying in wait for unsuspecting prey and witless victims. The smile that curls along the man’s unshaven face is meant to charm, but all it does is unsettle. 

Boba has never once trusted a man who relies solely on the weight of his words rather than his own actions. All that this man _has_ are words. Words, and a flimsy position within the ranks of the Empire. That, and twelve heavily armed Death Troopers that guard him, if you count _them_ as well. 

_Orson Krennic._

A man that’ll get what’s coming to him. Perhaps not Boba’s own plasma bolt through the middle of his finely pressed uniform—but something equally as satisfying.

Grey hairs that escape his hat glint like shards of metal shrapnel in the midday sun, the Director’s smile steady as he speaks. “Took you long enough, _bounty hunter._ ” 

Boba’s teeth clamp onto his tongue, the metallic taste of blood flooding his tastebuds. “Too bad you have to rely on one, _Director_.” 

Krennic snorts, folds his arms behind his back and saunters closer. “And your bounty? What of her?” 

_“Dead.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love nothing more for you to SCREAM at me 
> 
> @jangofctts on Tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


End file.
